


The Flat

by wallaby24



Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - UK 20th-21st c.
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-19
Updated: 2017-05-19
Packaged: 2018-11-02 09:55:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10942101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wallaby24/pseuds/wallaby24
Summary: Theresa arrives home after the LBC interview.





	The Flat

**Author's Note:**

> If you haven't seen the interview, look it up on YouTube, or this won't make much sense. It was with Nick Ferrari on LBC (11 May 2017).

“Theresa?” she heard Philip calling out as she stepped through the door of the No. 10 flat. “I’m in the kitchen!”

She set her purse down on the table by the door, kicked off her jeweled black flats with a sigh, and went to join her husband…whom she found standing at the sink, snipping the ends off of several roses.

“Oh, Philip…”

He smiled as he settled the roses into the vase next to him. “I was so proud of your interview that I popped out to get these for you.”

“That’s very sweet,” she said, feeling a familiar blush creep into her cheeks as she smiled. He’d been looking at her that way for forty years, but she’d never been able to stop the pink tinge it brought to her face.

She moved to embrace him, kissing his lips lightly and then settling into his arms, sighing softly as she rested her head on his shoulder. Her day had been long and tiring, starting with a visit from the Kenyan president and then a conference on Somalia and then off to Southampton for more campaigning and then at last an interview—always a draining, nervewracking experience for her—and she was simply very, very glad to be home with Philip.

“You okay?” he asked after a moment, and she nodded but didn’t let go. She wasn’t, quite, but she would be in a moment.

“You were very strong tonight,” he said quietly, with a soft kiss to her neck.

He’d read her thoughts, and she felt her eyes mist over again the way they had at the beginning of her interview. It shocked her, sometimes, how much it still stung after all these years. Philip, of course, would not press her—it was his manner merely to imply that he knew what she was thinking, and then let her talk, or not, as she was inclined. She was grateful for that—after tonight and Tuesday night, she thought she’d talked enough about babies to last her a lifetime.

All she wanted now was to be held, and what was wonderful about Philip was that she knew he would hold her for as long as she needed. He had always been willing to hold her quietly, his hands making slow passes up and down her back, until she felt healed enough to face the world again.

She drew peace and strength from his arms, and at last she stepped back and smiled softly. “So really, you thought it was good?”

He beamed again, in that way that made her blush. “It was very good, darling. Diane Abbott had to be absolutely green with envy.”

She laughed, relaxing in his presence.

“All joking aside, you did very well with all the callers.” They had not quite let go—their arms were still outstretched, their hands at each other’s elbows—and his thumb lightly stroked her arm. “And you looked very pretty, too…you know what my favorite part was?”

She frowned, pretending to give the question serious thought. “Maybe the army figures?”

“I rather liked the part where you talked about how much you liked having a fellow called Philip…” he leaned closer to whisper in her ear “…in your bed.”

“I did not say that!” she said earnestly, feeling the heat rise into her face. How mortified she had been to think of what had almost slipped out.

“No, but you were thinking it,” he said, grinning.

“I–I was not! I said ‘flat’ and I meant ‘flat!’ I’m not going to refer to our sex life on national radio; what sort of woman do you think I am?”

“The sort,” he said, laughing, “who protests too much.”

She began to laugh, too. “Was it that obvious? Do you think anyone knew but you?” His continued laughter and the sparkle in his eyes told her the answer, but in truth, she didn’t care. “The Philip who’s in my flat,” didn’t capture him at all…nor did, for that matter, “the Philip who’s in my bed.” Far more accurate would have been the Philip who still took her to the stars in bed, the Philip who snuggled her close at night, the Philip in whose arms she’d slept for decades. Who told her she was beautiful and brilliant and wonderful, who’d spent years building the self-confidence that had helped her into Parliament, who’d let her lean so heavily on him this last year. The Philip who brought her cups of tea, who rubbed her back and her feet at the end of a long day, who ran her hot baths when she ached with exhaustion—and who woke her gently when she fell asleep in them. Who dried her tears and who made her laugh and who held her and kissed her and told her he loved her.

The Philip who was now, in that way of his when he wanted to seriously kiss her, unbuttoning her suit coat so that he could slip his hands inside and around her waist, pulling her close.

She melted into his arms, kissing him back hungrily, realizing how little time she’d had with him in the midst of the campaign. And suddenly deciding that she had more energy than she thought, and that none of the paperwork she’d meant to look over tonight was really all that urgent.

“Philip,” she said, between kisses, “could we—”

“Go up to ‘your flat’? I’ve been thinking that since you first said it.”

But ironically, they didn’t make it to the bedroom.


End file.
